No answers. No comfort. Just silence and protocol.
Even as I climb aboard the military chopper, they won’t speak. I ask again. And again. My voice grows hoarse, but their lips stay sealed. By the time we’re airborne, I’m trembling, fists clenched on my lap, heart thudding wildly in my chest.
Tears fall silently, hot trails of fear carving their way down my cheeks.
I don’t care about rules or briefings or protocol. I don’t care if he’s wounded or unconscious or broken—I just need to get to him.
Please, God. Let him still be mine when I do.
The Black Hawk roars like a monster across the night sky, its blades chopping the air with a deafening rhythm, but none of it compares to the noise in my head.
I’m strapped into a seat, but I can barely feel the harness digging into my chest. My vision blurs at the edges. My body is cold—too cold—and I’m sweating all at once. The metallic scent of the helicopter mixes with my fear, and bile rises in my throat.
I can't breathe.
Every second drags like hours. I clench my fists until my nails pierce skin. I press the pads of my fingers against my lips, trying to hold in the sobs. But they keep slipping through, small and broken. He's still alive. He’s still alive. But why won’t they tell me anything more?
What if he’s in a coma? What if he doesn’t remember me?
A sharp pang stabs at my chest. I’ve spent months waiting for him, and now they tell me this—no details, no comfort, just Germany.
My mind spins with all the worst-case scenarios I’ve ever read in articles or heard in whispered stories from soldiers’ wives.
My legs start to go numb. My hands tremble uncontrollably. A cold shiver climbs my spine, and I feel the blood drain from my face. My vision swims, and I clutch the strap across my chest like it can tether me to this reality.
Don’t pass out. Don’t you dare pass out now.
I whisper Nate’s name like a mantra. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not after everything.
By the time we land, I’m dizzy, soaked in sweat, and ready to collapse. But I don’t. I run.
Room 378. I burst through the door without thinking, my feet moving faster than my brain can catch up.
“Nate!” I gasp.
He lies motionless on the hospital bed—pale, tubes, monitors, wires, bandages. My beautiful, strong man looks like a shadow of himself. A wave of nausea slams into me.
“Nate, I’m here,” I whisper as I stumble to his bedside, my hand reaching out to touch his arm. “Everything will be fine. I’m here, baby.”
I look at the nurses. They move around him like ghosts, saying nothing, not even meeting my eyes.
“What happened?” My voice is shaky. “How is he? Please—someone talk to me!” Still silence. “For fuck’s sake, can anyone give me a fucking answer?!”
“Isabel? Isabel Barlow?”
The voice jolts me. I turn sharply. “Christian?” My heart skips.
He looks older, more defined—worn in the way life tends to mold people. But it’s definitely him. Christian Langston. My friend from university. A familiar face in the middle of a nightmare.
“You’re here?” I ask.
“Hi, gorgeous.” He pulls me into a hug, and I collapse against him, just for a second. His voice is calm. Solid. “This is my department. I'm a surgeon now. Why are you?—”
“My husband,” I point to Nate’s bed. “He was brought here. No one will tell me a damn thing.”
“Let me have a look, I started my shift a few minutes ago.” He takes the folder from my hands and flips through it.
My heart beats so hard it hurts.
